Phantom of the Opera: Behind the Genius
by Ariadne Bassarid
Summary: Deep down inside, where Erik really feels things... He can't get the I'm Too Sexy song out of his head. [EC slanted.]
1. Chapter 1

**The Phantom of the Opera – Behind the Genius**

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_Inspired by Setine's "Seto Kaiba – Behind the Genius," which was inspired by Wicked Enough's "Ruruoni Kenshin – Tales of a Sexy Swordsman". _

_And for Setine; I hope she doesn't mind, but I'm Too Sexy is the best song ever. Although I have no idea if she's a phantom fan._

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**Entry one.**

Hold everything! Routine secret passage inspection reveals the buxom Mlle Daae humming in her boudoir. Thank you, Mme Giry's bleeding heart. I feel tingly all over, like I just punjabbed someone - but without the unpleasant problem of disposing of the body.

**Entry two.**

I wonder if she knows I'm here.

**Entry three.**

I think on some level she must know. Probably because she can hear my heavy breathing from behind her mirror. Better say something, quick.

**Entry four.**

Uh-oh. Struck by sudden doubtfulness of my status as The Sex. It's okay. Be cool, Erik.

_Christine, I am your father._

Damn it. I said be cool!

**Entry five.**

"Angel? Are you there?"

Her nightgown slipped off her shoulder. You are a pure and untainted angel. Think unsexy thoughts think unsexy thoughts. Joseph Buquet in a bathing suit.

Yeah, that'll do it.

**Entry six.**

I could be a music tutor. Sure. A sexy, masked music tutor who infiltrates the lay-deez's bedrooms. Oh yeah.

**Entry seven.**

Curious. Christine seems to orgasm when I sing to her. Come to me Strange Angel, indeed.

**Entry eight.**

Carlotta thinks she is The Sex. I dropped scenery on her. Now try to be the sex with a limp, Signora. Yeah, I thought so. Crutches aren't as sexy as a mask.

Nothing is as sexy as a mask. I'm too sexy for my mask…

**Entry nine.**

They cast Christine. Mon dieu. I'd better actually see if she can sing. This could be embarrassing. So much for my grand plans of the Underground Undergraduate Opera Programme.

NO! I will not let go of my dream of sexy college girls in desperate need of my tutelage! Those nights where the stress of studying gives way to pillow fights! Skinny dipping in the dark underground lake!

She will sing.

**Entry ten.**

Damn, that girl can sing. I'm better than I thought I was. And no one needs to know that I got tangled up in my cape earlier, in the excitement.

**Entry eleven.**

What the hell? Le patron – making a move on my woman? Get your own insecure sixteen year old to lie to, you caviar-eating, thoroughbred-breeding nancy-boy!

Ah, I don't have anything to worry about. When was the last time HE made a girl swoon by singing at her? Yeah, I thought so. When was the last time he made a girl swoon at all?

Ballerinas don't count. They swoon at their own shadows. They swoon at mine a lot. Even my shadow is the sex.

Maybe I can distract Raoul with a ballerina.

Either that or drop something on him.

**Entry twelve.**

Too sexy for my mask…

**Entry thirteen.**

I wonder if I remembered to put out the candle in my bedroom before I came upstairs.

**Entry fourteen.**

Well, what's the worst that could happen? I'd burn down the Opera Populaire?

Actually, that'd be pretty funny. Better file that idea away for later.

**Entry fifteen.**

If I'd known he'd take this long, I would have brought some cards to play solitaire behind this thing. One way mirror. I can't even admire myself to pass the time.

**Entry sixteen.**

Joseph Buquet in a bathing suit.

…Wtf? Stupid brain.

**Entry seventeen.**

_Aren't any floors for me to sweep, not in my castle on a – _

"Angel? Is that you?"

Uh. Think fast, Erik.

_Insolent boy, this knave of fashion, basking in your glory!_

Good work.

**Entry eighteen.**

"Enter at last, Master!"

Kinky. I knew she wanted me.

**Entry nineteen.**

Uh oh. She still thinks I was sent by her father. Time to break out the 80s guitar rifts.

**Entry twenty.**

That didn't seem to impress her. Now… What would Dracula do?

**Entry twenty-one.**

Geez, it was only a hickey. It's not like I actually tried to drain her blood. No need to kick me in the shins - now I'm limping. Stupid karma.

Better put her on the horse and get out of here.

And I don't smell funny. It's the cellars! It's dank in here.

And there are a lot of rats.

**Entry twenty-two.**

Rats aren't so bad, anyway. They don't taste so bad _au vin_. Admittedly, it takes a lot of _vin_.

Maybe I should have just tried to get Mlle Daae drunk instead of pretending to be her dead father.

Raoul probably would have. That's why I'm the genius, and Raoul isn't.

Of course, Carlotta's poodle is more of a genius than Raoul.

**Entry twenty-three.**

Children of the night – what beautiful music we make!

Wait, didn't Dracula say something like that? Stupid Dracula! Stealing my ideas before I have them! There ought to be a law against that.

Maybe Christine has never heard of him. It seems to be working, anyway. She's got that rapturous expression on her face again.

Now to show her my stamp collection and model collections.

**Entry twenty-four.**

Fuxxor. I tried to tell her that I only used the dummy for getting dresses made and practising my making out skillz, but she still fainted.

Better not undress her while she sleeps.

Well, maybe I'll just take off her stockings. To make sure she's, you know… Comfortable.

Oh. Now that's a mighty fine ankle.

Erik needs a cold dip in the lake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Phantom of the Opera - Behind the Genius.**

**Chap 2.**

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**Entry twenty-five.**

Someone is cranky when she wakes up.

It's almost cute.

Did I just say cute? Certainly not. _C'est impossible_. Anyway, I made her breakfast in bed. …How was I supposed to know she didn't like rat fillets?

**Entry twenty-six.**

Sigh. Why do people insist on removing my mask? She could have just asked for crepes if she didn't like the rat. Or an omelette.

I feel so… Emo. Current mood: Emoville. Is it not enough that they get my inner, hypnotic sex appeal? Do they have to try to find my outer, physical sex appeal, too?

**Entry twenty-seven.**

Maybe I should have put that mannequin away while she was passed out. Oh well, too late now.

**Entry twenty-eight.**

She's STILL gasping. Geez, get over it, already. It's just my face. I need it to give my sexy mask a purpose. And to terrorise the _corps de ballet_. Anyone would think she'd just seen the spoilers for the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels posted online, or something.

That reminds me, I need to flame the managers about not paying my salary.

**Chers Richard et Moncharmin,**

**Just a brief reminder – my salary has not been paid. Send it care of The Ghost or your ass is toast,**

**O.G.**

That ought to do the trick.

**Entry twenty-nine**

Christine seems to be getting cabin fever. I should probably take her home, soon. Plus, earlier she said something about redecorating.

She wants to get rid of the coffin. I tried to explain that it's important to me, but she just doesn't understand.

"Isn't that a little morbid?"

No, I need it to threaten Nadir with.

_I need it to remind me of my own mortality, ma belle fleur._

Where is Nadir, anyway?

**Entry thirty.**

I bet he's upstairs trying to flirt with Meg.

Good luck with that. If a mask didn't work, his little Persian fez sure as hell won't. That girl isn't getting into bed for anything less than a diamond.

Christine's better than Meg, anyway. Meg can't sing for crap. Sounds a bit like a moose, really. Poor child.

"And you could use a lighter colour scheme – maybe some pastels like lemon and seashell pink!"

What? That's it, she's outta here, even if I have to persuade the good Messieurs that she'll be singing as prima donna.

**Entry thirty-one.**

Look guys, it's not that complicated. I write all my letters in blood red ink and sign them as _O.G._ There's no need to argue over who sent what to whom.

**Entry thirty-two.**

Oh. My. God.

I can twitch my pectoral muscles.

Look at them go. Left, right, left, right…

**Entry thirty-three.**

Okay, I clearly claimed that I had the lovely Christine under my (hot muscular body) wing all week long. There's no need to insinuate that she was off consorting with the Viscomte de Chagny.

For one thing, he'd be too busy washing his hair to ever make a disturbingly lifelike wax figurine of the object of his affection.

And for another, he wouldn't know a soprano if one hit him in the face.

**Entry thirty-four.**

I stand corrected. Carlotta sure packs a punch. Maybe I was too quick to judge her.

…Nah.

**Entry thirty-five.**

**Chers Messieurs Richard et Moncharmin,**

**Cast Mlle Daae as the countess in Il Muto, or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.**

**Like I'll be forced to put up pastel curtains.**

**O.G.**

**Entry thirty-six.**

Left, right, left, right…

OH MY GOD. I can do it with my buttocks as well!

I am too, too sexy for my Opera House.

I should get some leather pants.

**Entry thirty-seven.**

**Chers Messieurs Richard et Moncharmin,**

**Okay, I have by now sent you several letters of the most amiable nature, and I really, really mean it this time. Carlotta better not be singing a-lotta, or a disaster beyond your imagination will occur tonight. In fact, you'd better give her the silent role. Quelle humiliation for our former star, eh?**

**O.G.**

**P.S. Where are my 20,000 francs? I can't live on ratmeat forever, you know.**

**Entry thirty-eight.**

I just heard that Buquet called me a fag.

What the hell? He is SO punjabbed. Dead man walking.

**Entry thirty-nine.**

**Cher T.V. Guide,**

**Quite frankly, I am appalled by the screening time of the latest season of The Antiques Roadshow. Eleven o'clock on a Wednesday is a terrible timeslot for such compelling viewing. The television needs more wholesome, family-friendly shows such as the Roadshow, and to see it resigned to an unfavourable time is extremely disappointing. Please inform the network that unless this situation is remedied, a disaster beyond their imagination may occur. **

"**Fantome de l'Opera,"  
****Paris.**

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AN: Use of the word 'flame' in reference to OG's letters – see Kat097's _A Defensive Situation. _Hey, stalkers. I know you're out there, I can see it on this new'hits' feature. Reviews make the world go 'round. Pretty please? Look, you've reduced me to begging for approval. 


	3. Chapter 3

**The Phantom of the Opera – Behind the Genius**

**Chap 3**

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**Entry forty.**

_I'm, too sexy for Christine Daae, too sexy for Christine Daae, too sexy for – _

"…Erik? What on earth…?"

**Entry forty-one.**

Stupid Nadir, interrupting my rehearsals. I push you in the lake, Monsieur!

**Entry forty-two**

…Oh, snap! You should have seen his face! Those Persians sure know how to look outraged.

Now he wants to borrow my blowdryer. Fine, but I'm not lending him a pair of my nice, dry pants. They're specifically tailored to emphasise my own personal… Contours. They'll make your soul begin to soar, baby.

**Entry forty-three.**

Wtf? Carlotta is still singing the lead? And they gave my box to RAOUL? Where the hell did I leave my lasso, anyway?

_Heads will roll._

"I think the Headless Horseman already took that saying."

Well what the HELL am I supposed to say, huh?

_I should be thy Adam; rather I am thy fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no reason!_

"That's Frankenstein's monster quoting Milton."

_Merde. _Effing Frankie's Monster. And effing Milton. Think's he's so smart with his Paradise Lost.

_My _Don Juan Triumphant_ could kick his ass._

"If you ever finish it."

_Shut up, Nadir! Your blowdryer privileges are revoked! You can just frizz, for all I care!_

**Entry forty-four.**

I just love the opera - when I have my own personal seat. I can't believe they gave it away to that – that mincing dandy! Do fifteen years of diligent ghosting mean nothing to these people? Next they'll be giving me a gold watch for my retirement.

Anyway, I can't see a thing behind this woman's bloody great big feathered hat. I give up.

Ooh, idea.

**Entry forty-five.**

_Je suis trop sexy pour Carlotta, trop sexy pour Carlotta…_

**Entry forty-six.**

What the…? How am I supposed to drop more scenery on Carlotta when Joseph Buquet is actually at his post for once? Why isn't he drinking rum like a good stagehand?

Time for Plan B.

**Entry forty-seven.**

Laaaaa, la la la la la, ahahaha – CROAK.

_Prima donna, you cannot hold the floor, when you ribbet, and my gibbet, is coming for you...!_

**Entry forty-eight.**

Whoops. Buquet _tripped_ and _fell_ into the Punjab Lasso.

I'm sure Christine will understand.

**Entry forty-nine**

Oh, look at them all panicking like it's the end of the world. He was only a stagehand. And a drunkard, too. They'll get over it.

Angel of Music, you are so, so awesome.

Give yourself a gold star. In fact, buy yourself a new mask. One with sequins.

Raoul will be all, OMG D00DER I WISH I WAS U.

**Entry fifty.**

_Zut alors – _Did they have to drag me up to the roof_? J'ai beaucoup de froid_ up here – I'm going to freeze if they don't hurry this along.

Wait, is he - ?

No. He is NOT singing to her.

That's my BIT, you _petit batard_! I sing! That's what I do!

No, no no no! You call that a C minor? I'll give you a C minor right in your – your shampoo!

**Entry fifty-one.**

Erik can't feel his special place any more. Erik is very concerned.

Why didn't I bring a thicker cape? Stupid rooftop. Stupid rooftop duets.

**Entry fifty-two.**

Sucks to be you, Raoul. I don't see her swooning. I mean, for one thing, you keep arguing that the _fantome de l'Opera_ is a figment of her imagination. The way to win a girl's heart is not, in fact, to insinuate that she's a wee bit crazy.

_Christine –_

I'll figment you, Raoul. And your little dog too! Bwahahahaha!

**Entry fifty-three.**

I hope Nadir remembered to put my electric blanket on, tonight.

**Entry fifty-four.**

Gag me with a spoon. This is getting more nauseating with every passing second.

**Entry fifty-five.**

Seriously now. Erik's special place is reaching a critical status. If these two lovebirds don't wrap it up soon I might have to do a little premature punjabbing of le Viscomte, just so I can go inside.

**Entry fifty-six.**

Sudden identity crisis: even the Wicked Witch of the West has better catch phrases than me. 'Punjabbing'? What's with that?

**Entry fifty-seven.**

There, there Erik. It's okay. You'll find your place in the sun. Or eternal night. One of those. And when Christine tells Raoul to go to Hades with his fine horses and his silky drawers, you'll see you were worrying about nothing all along.

**Entry fifty-eight.**

She… Accepted his ring over mine?

WTF! Slutball!

Has she forgotten that I can rock her socks right off with only the sound of my beautiful music? That I rocked so hard, she had to go and find a casbah so I could rock that for her, too?

Trouble in Operatown. Storm's a-brewing.

You are so dead, de Chagny.

**Entry fifty-nine.**

I just realised my ankles look fat in these boots. And I've been prancing around in them all night like a king.

The perfect end to the worst day of my life.

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AN: Thank you all so much for your reviews. I hope you found this chapter as funny.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Phantom of the Opera: Behind the Genius**

**Chap 4**

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**Entry sixty.**

I don't want to get out of bed. For one thing, it's too cold. And for another, my one true love is probably making out with nancy-boy and laughing and having snow-fights with nancy-boy and encouraging little sparrows to eat the bread out of his big furry claws (wait, that was Beauty and the Beast) and worst of all, SINGING DUETS with nancy-boy instead of with me.

Maybe I should get a haircut. Then she'd love me.

**Entry sixty-one.**

What am I saying? A haircut? Why don't I just get a perm and a pedicure, while I'm at it? Phantoms don't care about the state of their hair! I am a cold, ruthless killer who just wants to be loved! I care not for fopping about with blonde hair!

Though I'd die before I stepped above ground without a cape.

Shudder.

**Entry sixty-two.**

Maybe I'll make an effigy of Raoul. And punjab it.

No. First I'll put it in a dress.

THEN I'll punjab it. Muahaha.

**Entry sixty-three.**

_Go away, Nadir. I'm not coming out today._

You'd think he'd die without me - whoa. Maybe Nadir is in love with me.

**Entry sixty-four.**

NO! First I'll put it in a dress, then I'll shave its head, and THEN I'll punjab it.

Muahahahaha!

…Oh, that was a good laugh.

**Entry sixty-five.**

"But Erik! It's chaos up there! There hasn't been a petrified shriek in weeks! And the managers are openly mocking you! …Phillipe de Chagny has purchased your box for the entire season!"

_He can have it. I don't want to watch their stupid operas with their stupid prima donnas anyway._

Plus, I think I left a cheese loaf in there during the last showing of Faust. It's gotta be pretty fragrant by now.

"…I brought éclairs!"

_Stop trying to seduce me and go away! I'm in love with a WOMAN, Nadir! I could never love YOU! Why can't you just accept that?_

**Entry sixty-six.**

Anyway, a haircut wouldn't do much to detract from my HORRIBLE DEFORMITY, would it now?

I'm still sexy.

Sob.

**Entry sixty-seven.**

I hope I didn't offend Nadir.

And I hope he left the éclairs outside my door.

Wait, I'd have to get out of bed to get to them. Fine, I don't need éclairs. I'll just grow emaciated and bitter! I don't need anyone, or anything!

**Entry sixty-eight.**

I need to go to the bathroom.

I don't think I thought this strategy through properly.

**Entry sixty-nine.**

Heh. Sixty nine.

Would anyone actually recognise the Raoul effigy in a dress and without its hair? His hair is kind of his defining characteristic. They might just think I murdered a really butch dancer.

**Entry seventy.**

_It's just a jump to the left! And then a step to the riiiiiight! Put your hands on your hips! And –_

No, it's not working. I'm going to have to get up and visit the Little Opera Ghost's Room.

**Entry seventy-one.**

Why don't I own a pair of slippers? Stone floors are bloody cold and…

…What's this? Something taped to my door! I've got mail! I've got mail! No one has ever written me back before.

Well, apart from envelopes full of cash left in Box Five, but that hardly counts. They don't even slip in a friendly _bonjour_.

I hope it's fanmail.

**Entry seventy-two.**

Hey, what if I put it in a dress, and chopped off its hair, and THEN stuck a sign on it that said "I am Raoul de Chagny and my favourite hobby is pressing wildflowers in my pink dream journal!"?

I am a genius. A genius!

Genius.

A person of extraordinary intellect and talent.

A tutelary deity or guardian spirit of a person or place.

Erik The Sex.

**Entry seventy-three.**

Oh, it's a flyer about the annual Bal Masque. I guess I'd better get a costume organised. A better one than last year.

Going in a horse suit with Nadir was a bad idea to begin with. He kept walking into my fabulous posterior every time I stopped moving. And whinging about how his back hurt. And how hot it was stuck as a horse's rear end.

No, you're not hot in there.

I am hot, period.

Now shut up and trot, ponyman!

…Good times.

**Entry seventy-four.**

That'd have to be a pretty big sign, though. Or else small writing. And if it was too small no one would be able to read how Monsieur le Viscomte is as girly as the day is long until they got up really close.

Oh, to hell with it. I'll just channel my rage into something constructive, like finishing my _Don Juan_. Raoul can wait.

**Entry seventy-five.**

I hope this wasn't Nadir's way of asking me out on a date. Especially when I just reiterated my mad, passionate love for Mlle Daae. Obviously, she'll be my date for the evening.

She doesn't know it yet, but that's a mere technicality.

Now. Costume plans.

**Entry seventy-six.**

_Nadir? Nadir! – Where in the world can you be hiding, I need you to do some shopping!_

Mon dieu! I do get sick of schlepping up and down seven levels of cellars just to find that man, and say boo to the occasional ballerina. I can't even find the bloody horse anywhere. I hope Nadir's been feeding it.

Maybe it fell in the lake. That'd save us all some trouble.

I probably would have heard the splash, though… Unless Carotta was singing…

**Entry seventy-seven.**

…_I'm a phantom, you want me Christine, as I shake my little tush on the catwalk… On the catwalk!_

Rreow. Step aside _corps de ballet_, Sex On Legs comin' through…

**Entry seventy-eight.**

"Out of bed finally, are we?"

_There you are! You've been flirting with Meg again, I suppose! For god's sake, man, she's less than half your age!_

"Oh, and Mlle Daae is - "

_My soulmate, yes, I know. Quit wasting time with idle chatter! Look, I need you to go buy me five metres of blood red velvet fabric. Look! Look at these designs – I call it, "The Red Death Stalking Abroad." Isn't it magnificent, Nadir?_

"I don't think it's really necessary to give your costume a title."

Stupid Persian, thinks he knows everything.

_Do it, or I'll lock you inside my coffin again._


	5. Chapter 5

**The Phantom of the Opera: Behind the Genius**

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**Chap 5.**

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**Entry seventy-nine.**

I hope they're serving those little cocktail sausages at this thing.

**Entry eighty.**

Where is my other boot? WHERE is my other boot? What am I supposed to do, wear one boot of red leather, and one of black? Someone has been in here and hidden my boot!

World: ending.

**Entry eighty-one.**

And I hope they're serving martinis. Then I can tell that joke I know.

**Entry eighty-two.**

Sweet merciful death. Look at me. I'm magnificent. I am the sexiest phantom to ever phant. The hang of my jacket – the swirl of my cape. The blood red of my velvet.

No one can resist a man in a red velvet suit. I am a stone cold fox. No wonder Nadir wants me. Not even other men can resist my sexiness.

But he's going to have to be punished for hiding my boot.

**Entry eighty-three.**

_I said get in the coffin, Nadir! Where you will stay until you learn to behave!_

Hey, what's my boot doing in there?

"Now do you believe me? I told you that I didn't take it, Erik."

_I suppose it walked itself in there, then! …Anyway, you look like a clown, you stupid Persian._

That'll learn him.

"I AM a clown – my costume is a pierrot."

Damnit!

**Entry eighty-four.**

I should wear red more often. It makes my eyes look especially murderous. _Ma cherie_, I smoulder.

I've always wanted to smoulder.

**Entry eighty-five.**

Although when you think about it 'smoulder' isn't a particularly sexy word. It is entirely too much like 'moulding'.

Smoulder. Moulding. Smoulder. Moulding. Smoulder. Moulding. Smouldering. Smoulding.

Great, now they don't even look like real words anymore.

**Entry eighty-six.**

"Oh Erik, your smouldering eyes have rendered me helpless! Carry me down once more to the darkness of your hidden lair - and ravish me!"

That's what she'll say.

**Entry eighty-seven.**

Oh my god. What if someone ELSE is going as the Red Death? I mean, embarrassment!

It's okay. Don't hyperventilate. It's too late to change outfits now. Not when you've been working on this one for a month.

_Zut_, is that the time, already?

**Entry eighty-nine.**

Okay, so I'm a little… Late. It's hard to be punctual when you have a lake to punt across. Christine could have at least waited for me like we agreed. Ah, I'll find her later.

**Entry eighty-eight.**

I love the Bal Masque.

…_And I looked at her and said, let's get you out of that wet bustle - and into a dry martini!_

These people love me.

**Entry eighty-nine.**

…Is that a Red Death costume I see over there? …Oh, no, that's just Satan. Quelle relief.

Anyway, I don't know why I was so worried. If do see one – we just set sail for Punjab, _mes amis_!

**Entry ninety.**

…Love me! The Red Death Stalking Abroad is too sexy for this party. Growl.

Did that woman just faint because I growled at her? I think so. Erik, aka, "The Red Death Stalking Abroad": One.

Nadir, "as a pierrot": Cowering in the corner under that huge diaphanous woman dressed as a Valkyrie.

Erik wins!

**Entry ninety-one**.

Though disposing of a body might be a problem in amongst all these people.

**Entry ninety-two.**

Gasp - Cocktail weenies!

**Entry ninety-three.**

I spy, with my smouldering eyes, Mlle Christine Daae. What a dress! Va-va voom! She almost looks sexier than I do.

I'd dispose of HER body any day. Wink wink, nudge nudge.

That girl she's talking with is kind of foxy, too. I'd better go introduce myself.

**Entry ninety-four.**

Mother of God in Heaven. That's no foxy lady – that's Raoul.

I feel so dirty. Just back away, Erik. Back away.

**Entry ninety-five.**

Dude! No one touches the cape! Impertinent little drunkard. Home he goes to his mama with a broken wrist. Well, I warned him not to touch me.

Okay, I warned SOMEONE not to touch me. It might have been him. It's hard to tell when everyone has these stupid masks on.

_What, like you people have never seen a murderous rage before?_

"It's the phantom!"

Sigh. Gee, you think?

I hate the Bal Masque.

**Entry ninety-six.**

I guess it's not his fault. Everyone wants to touch Erik. It's my natural magnetism. Plus, I did sort of reverse into him.

I'll just try to carry on like nothing happened.

**Entry ninety-seven.**

Also, I didn't mean that 'stupid masks' thing, Mr Mask. You're still the sexiest accessory in existence.

**Entry ninety-eight**

They're still staring at me and quivering. Better say something witty, quick.

**Entry ninety-nine.**

…_And then I said, you keep the cow!_

What is wrong with you people? That story is FUNNY! …Oh. They're waiting for me to sing. Being a musical phantom can be so very… Trying. Good thing I brought my opera to show Christine.

**Entry one hundred.**

_I have written you an Opera! Here I bring the finished score - _Don Juan Triumphant! …_But before rehearsals start, le patron must get a haircut – he's such a girl he could replace Christine on stage!_

Oh, zing.

Raoul looks confused.

**Entry one hundred and one.**

Heh. What am I saying? Raoul always looks confused.

**Entry one hundred and two.**

Uh oh, he's drawing his sword.

Time for me to make my mysterious getaway.

**Entry one hundred and three.**

**Chere Mademoiselle Daae,**

**I apologise for my boorish behaviour this evening. I should not have been late to meet you, nor publicly ridiculed your childhood playmate, or in any way insinuated your looks were masculine. Though it WAS pretty funny. You have to admit, the look on pretty-boy's face was priceless! But more importantly, it was wrong of me. Unpleasantness aside, your gown, ma cherie, was nothing short of ravishing. Almost as beautiful as your lovely voice. Speaking of which, are we still up for your lesson on Tuesday?**

**Eternally yours,**

**O.G.**

**Entry one hundred and four.**

Be strong, Erik.

…

…

Nope; can't do it.

**P.S. Be prepared for a great disaster should you fail to meet me as scheduled.**

Ah. Much better.


End file.
